Heart's Blood

In the dream, I had no voice. I could not scream a protest, I could not say that the idea of marrying Cillian filled my heart with terror. I could not tell her that turning my back on my beloved craft meant betraying my father. But then, in the long, waking nightmare that had unfolded after Father’s death, I had not once spoken out. My voice had been muted by grief and by a numb refusal to accept that all I held dear had been suddenly snatched from me. Even now, I did not quite believe that in a single season the bright promise of my life had turned to ashes.

Now Ita and I were in a tiny cell with iron bolts on the door. It was bitterly cold; I was clad only in a shift of scratchy homespun. Ita was shaving my head with a big knife. You’ve run out of choices, Caitrin, you disobedient girl.You must go into the priory.You’ll have plenty of time there to consider the result of your folly. A nun’s gray habit was laid out across the pallet. On second thoughts, Ita’s dream voice said, we’ll do it this way. The floor of the cell opened under my feet. I fell, half-naked as I was, and a forest of bony hands stretched out to rake my flesh with long nails as I passed. A howling filled the air, a wretched, despairing noise. Slavering mouths surrounded me, sinking their pointed teeth deep into my arms, my legs, the tender parts of my body, until I felt the flow of hot blood all over me. You’re nothing! Nothing! A derisive, shrieking laugh. Down I fell, down, down, knowing that when I landed I would break in pieces . . . Sleep, whispered someone. Long sleep ...

I woke, heart hammering, skin damp with the sweat of terror. Where was I? It was pitch-dark and I was trembling with cold. An icy draft swept into the cell-like chamber where I lay. A cell . . . the priory, oh God, it hadn’t been a dream, it was true . . . No, I was in the inn at Whistling Tor, and I had kicked my blankets onto the floor while I slept. My bundle and writing box were beside me, the proof that at last I had taken control of my life and fled Market Cross.Tears filled my eyes as I reached for the blankets. It was all right. I was safe.The nightmare was over.

It had been worse than usual, perhaps thanks to Tomas and Orna’s tales, and I had no wish to lie down and close my eyes again. Besides, it was too cold to sleep. A clammy chill was seeping right into my bones. I huddled into the blankets and applied my mind to the dire situation I had brought on myself. I had no resources beyond my craft and my common sense, and even that had deserted me lately. I must think of tomorrow. How to get a ride when folk seldom visited Whistling Tor. How to pay for it with no funds.And the big one, the one that kept my belly churning with fear and my head racing to find solutions: how to stay one step ahead of pursuit.

My head began to turn in circles. My father lying pale and still on the workroom floor. Ita’s voice, always her voice, issuing decrees, giving orders, making things happen, too soon, much too soon, while shock and sorrow rendered me incapable of standing up for myself. And as soon as my sister was gone, the blows. Ita was a master of slaps and pinches. And Cillian ... Cillian had marked me. The bruises on my skin—blue, black, yellow, an angry patchwork—would fade. There were other hurts, deeper ones, that would be harder to lose. You did it, Caitrin, I reminded myself. You got up and walked out.

Dawn came at last, but I did not unbar my door until I heard folk moving about outside. While I discounted the horror tales of suppertime, my dream made me reluctant to venture out until the local people deemed it safe to go abroad. Just as I was removing the iron bar, Tomas came to knock on the door.

“There’s a fire on,” the innkeeper said. “Come through when you’re ready. I’ve got a bit of breakfast for you.”

“I can’t pay any more.”

“No extra charge, lass.You need something in your stomach.”

I could have wept. It seemed so long since I had been amongst kind people. Soon after, I was sitting at a table by the window of the inn, looking out as I worked my way through a platter of coarse bread and sausage.